Rose Is a Rose
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Four short stories about Clarisse on her birthday. Rupert, Joseph, and Mia to come.
1. Chapter 1

_Happy birthday to the inimitable Marjorie Nescio! Here is part one of your present. Part two - and if we're really lucky, parts three and four! - will follow tomorrow._

_Title on loan from "Sacred Emily" by Gertrude Stein. Characters borrowed from Meg Cabot and Disney._

* * *

**Perfect for Each Other**

There it was again - that little light in his eyes. A reminder that her husband was in love with someone else.

Well.

Happy _birthday_ to her.

She had always known. He had told her all those years ago, when they discovered her parents had been negotiating a marriage contract with his parents. He had told her gently, but in no uncertain terms, that he couldn't love her the way she deserved.

As if they'd had a choice in the matter. As if the Crown Prince hadn't been in desperate need of a suitable mate.

As if, in fairness, she could have been dissuaded. She was so young, and he was her heart's first desire. So she had told him she understood, and it wasn't a lie because she honestly thought she had.

When Rupert saw their entwined fate was imminent, he made sure everything was done properly. Clarisse had a dazzling ring, proffered to her by a prince down on one knee. She had a devoted fiance who became a faithful husband. Not once did he let his own heartbreak touch her, or bitterness affect his feelings of true affection for her.

It helped that the keeper of Rupert's heart did not cope so well. Titled duty had forced him to be present for the nuptials, but the moment he could flee, he did. For better or for worse, the new couple had their marriage all to themselves. Well, as much as any royal couple has their marriage to themselves.

Time went on. Clarisse's world expanded to include more than her Prince Charming, and much of her time was spent with charities, speaking engagements, and eventually motherhood. She learned that sometimes - _some_times - one must grow beyond youth before learning to fully interpret the heart's desires; and gradually, her love evolved to join Rupert's in a state of fondness.

Meanwhile, Lord Edouard Bellamy watched his jealousy collapse under the weight of futility, allowing him to realize that sometimes - _some_times - life with Rupert as a friend was better than life without Rupert at all.

Over the past few years, much to the amazement of both the Princess and Lord Bellamy, there was space enough in their lives for a careful friendship to slowly develop between them.

Now Lord Bellamy said something witty - again. Prince Rupert was laughing at him - again. Clarisse wasn't feeling terribly friendly.

She lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. She was contemplating it as she wandered over to the side of the ballroom where a long table practically bowed under shiny bags and elegant boxes. She ambled along until she reached the end, at which another table stood, holding three tiers of cake, frosted white and coated in toasted coconut.

A cake and - what's this? The knife for cutting the cake was laid out, next to a small glass dish with several tiny forks. She nonchalantly looked one way, then the other. She set down her champagne, ran her fingers over the gleaming silver of the knife handle before wrapping them around it.

If she poked the knife point into an inconspicuous spot around the back of the cake among the sugar flowers, making two small diagonal cuts into it, no one would know….

She eased the knife back onto its plate, not concerned about the slight smudge of crumb-studded frosting. Then she slipped one of the tiny utensils in between the cuts; she dislodged a bite of cake, and lifted it to her lips.

She closed her eyes and smiled. R-r-r-rum.

"I saw that."

Clarisse spun around guiltily and came face to face with Lord Edouard Bellamy. He was smirking in an impossibly charming way.

"We lost our taster recently. Now I have to try everything myself."

He shook his head. "Such a rough time to be royal."

"You have no idea," she sighed.

His tone shifted suddenly to one more earnest and...something else. "I know Her Highness will have a great number of splendid gifts to open, but perhaps she would consider a request to open mine first?"

Edouard Bellamy was anything but shy, yet she was at a loss for a better word to describe his current demeanor.

"I don't know," she responded lightly. "I believe, in order to show no preferential treatment, I am supposed to start at one end of the table and proceed laboriously toward the other."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a flat box, which he placed onto the gift table. With an unsubtle bump of his fingers, he slid it in her direction, past all the other presents. He waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Would you look at that? Mine is all the way over to one end."

She bit back a smile. "Why, yes, it is."

As stringed instruments hummed and couples swelled the dance floor and champagne flowed, the two not-quite-friends leaned over the box. She plucked off the lid just as he said, "I've heard you have a thing for roses, that you've decided to expand the rose garden."

Her breath caught as all the years of knowing without fully understanding hit her like a slap in the face.

Rupert had told Edouard she liked roses. Because they talked. Of course, they talked. Why wouldn't they talk? Talking was their only means of intimacy. They shared information, exchanged observations. And her nascent plans, floated to her husband late one night in the solitude of their bedroom - to turn the meager palace gardens into an Eden - had passed through that channel.

But she was older now, and like Rupert, she had learned to hide a treasured heartbreak of her own. So she smiled, determined to accept the gift in the spirit in which it had been chosen.

"It's beautiful, Edouard. Thank you. And yes, I do love roses."

He knew something was amiss, despite an authentic smile and genuine gratitude. In addition to never having been shy before this evening, he was rarely flustered; but he fumbled now, anxious to be sure he had done nothing wrong unwittingly.

"Do you…? Is it -... Please, if I may…" He reached for the box and gently lifted out the scarf. The rose-patterned silk ran through his fingers like liquid, and the light from the nearest chandelier caused the colors - her favorite colors; had Rupert told him her favorite colors? - to shimmer. He waited until she dipped her head, then draped it carefully around her neck and let it flow over her shoulders. It was beautiful, and she fiddled with an edge of it and longed to love it as she should.

Edouard was stammering through an explanation of being stumped - after all, a princess lacks for nothing, right? - and of wanting something that would be a reflection of her personal tastes. Something about a hint from Rupert, and an encounter with -

He had her full attention now. "What was that?"

"Christiana Poirier. I was at a party she gave, and I told her my dilemma - that I needed something special."

"I love Christiana. She is my favorite designer."

"I know. At least," he gave her the most attractive crooked smile she had ever seen, "I assumed so. You wear her quite often."

"Rupert could not have possibly told you that."

Edouard looked bemused, not quite understanding her relief followed quickly by a slight blush at an unrecognized admission. "He hardly knows a dinner jacket from a rain jacket, let alone one designer from another." He shuddered. "It's terrible. Thank god his job requires a valet. He must keep the poor soul on his toes."

"Believe me, he does." The scarf had taken on a new appeal, and she luxuriated in the feel of it against the bare skin of her neck and shoulders.

"I, however, know a true artist when I see one. For example, I adore what Christiana has done for women's hemlines these last few seasons."

"Doesn't she strike the perfect balance between vintage and modern?"

"And I swear I say this with utter sincerity: every time you step out in one of her creations, I am certain she designed it with you in mind."

"Oh, I'm not sure about that."

"It's true. The two of you are a perfect fit."

"Thank you," she replied with a gracious laugh.

"I mean it," he said quietly. She looked up and saw so many conflicting emotions rippling across his face, she nearly cried. He gave her a sad smile. "I wish I could say otherwise, but I can't. I've never met a better suited couple."

"Edouard," she breathed.

He cleared his throat and forced the tenor of the conversation to shift. "Even if he has no idea what makes this different from some mass produced atrocity hanging from a rack in a department store."

She couldn't help but chuckle. "He really hasn't a clue."

"Not a one."

"I suppose no one is perfect."

Edouard picked up the knife and checked his reflection in the broad blade. He set it down and made a minute adjustment to his tie. "Or rather, so few of us are."

"That is probably more accurate." She lifted the scarf and caught it up in a few delicate, wispy folds. Edouard held the box out to her as she placed it back inside. "What the hell, we love him anyway, don't we?"

Edouard's eyes widened for a short moment, then a grin spread across his face. Without so much as a sideways glance, he reached out and caught a passing champagne flute. Clarisse reclaimed hers, and they tilted their glasses toward one another. "Yes, we do, Your Highness." The rims clinked musically. "Happy birthday."

"You know, it rather is."


	2. Hovering

_Clearly, I am behind schedule. But this is a better version of what I almost posted a couple weeks ago. Also, I have nearly extended Marjorie Nescio's birthday into a month-long celebration. (Every now and then, being a late person has its rewards.)_

* * *

**Hovering**

She was pushing down on the handle of the bedroom door when she heard him groan. She froze, bit her lip, tried desperately to ignore the impulse to turn around.

"Clarisse. It's aches and pains. I'm fine. Go on."

"I know," she replied to the door, still resisting her instinct to go to him.

"You have things to do."

"Yes." And anyway, his valet would be here any moment. And the nurse shortly after.

"Stop hovering," he chided lightly.

"I'm not hovering." Her first birthday present of the day winked at her from its place on a slender finger of the hand that was still wrapped around the door knob, as if to echo the reassuring sentiments of its giver. He had rested relatively well last night, after all.

"Then why are you still here?"

"Because." She gnawed, quite delicately, on the lip that was back between her teeth. "I'm...hovering."

He laughed, which made him cough. She did turn then, but he held up a hand to stop her before she had taken more than a few steps, and the coughing subsided quickly enough.

"Clarisse -"

"It's nothing that can't wait. It can _all_ wait."

"It cannot wait. The country cannot stop because one man gets dressed slowly now. You go on and get the day started."

Only it could. It flashed into her head, and she quashed the imagery with a mixture of shame (for having thought it) and anger (for the inevitability of it happening, slowly and painfully no less) - the palace draped in black while bells tolled in every corner of the small nation, and life, for a short but definite time, came to a standstill.

Her stomach lurched and she felt nauseated; her husband alive, even if not well, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of her.

"Clarisse." He said it softly, and she felt her name full of fondness and a sort of love whose existence she had not imagined in her younger years.

Maybe their love had never been a fairy tale, not really. But it had been strong and sure and affectionate. Now love meant staying up most of the night to keep him company; to fluff his pillows and spread blankets - ever-increasing layers of them - over his diminishing frame; to listen for the moment when his raspy breath evened out after he finally succumbed to a fitful sleep.

To leave him in the morning so he could pretend he didn't need her; so she could meet with Philippe to go over Rupert's schedule and decide which of them would take care of what items, leaving only the most vital to Rupert. Sooner rather than later, those also would fall to Philippe.

She hated the tears that sprang to her eyes now while she stood in front of him, facing him. She should have more control than this, but she was so tired all the time…

He pushed up from the bed and made his way over to her. He caught up her hand in both of his, and he admired the ring he had slid onto her finger a short time before. The thin silver band mimicked leafy tendrils wending their way around to form a setting for a round pink diamond.

He had a hundred things to do each day, and the energy to accomplish only a handful of them. Yet he had made sure there was time to collaborate with his favorite jeweler.

"Do you like it?"

"It's lovely. And more than enough."

He rolled his eyes, and she knew her message had been received. "I have no regrets about this evening," he declared, referring to the ball that was always her last present of every birthday. The ring, he had supervised closely. The party - he had left many of those tiring details to his most trusted staff.

He would need a nap this afternoon if he were to make it even halfway through the evening.

"I know."

"Do you? Have regrets?"

She watched the ring, tilting her hand this way and that within his to allow the natural light to catch it and have its way with it.

She still remembered how her heart stuttered years ago when he was her prince.

She thought of how it felt when she realized he couldn't love her the way he loved Edouard.

She thought of the comfortable camaraderie between Rupert and her, how easily their lives fit together, the restlessness that thrummed subtly somewhere beneath her calm exterior.

She thought of the first time she'd glimpsed Joseph, out for his morning run. Arms pumping, black t-shirt straining, and the man himself, hardly breaking a sweat.

She thought of how her children fit in her arms when they were tiny, of how they still fit in her arms even though they were grown.

A second had passed. The beat of a heart.

Her husband had a hundred questions, and the time for only a handful of answers. She replied to all of them at once with nothing but the truest words.

"No. Not one."

Rupert swallowed hard, then smiled. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her fingers and then the ring. It was elegant with its tiny details, but still the diamond was simpler and smaller than most of the jewelry she had been gifted or had inherited.

"It reminded me of a flower, the way it was cut. That's why I had the setting designed this way," he explained. Then: "Of course, you could heap on every last shimmering, sparkling piece of the Crown jewels at once, and altogether they would pale in comparison to you. The way you look right now, in this light. With nothing but the morning sun and your eyes, you could outshine them all."

It was her turn to roll her eyes. "Oh, really."

"It's true."

It wasn't lingering traces of fairy tale that made her melt a little. She melted a little because he meant it, every single word. It _was_ true. Whatever else they had been, or hadn't, they had been true to each other.

She smiled now, in spite of everything, and rather impressed herself by keeping her composure.

"Thank you," she said, kissing his cheek.

"Now go," he whispered, releasing her reluctantly.

Carefully. Letting go, they both realized how much he had begun leaning into their contact, how it had gone from a gesture of emotional comfort for her to physical support for him. She made sure he was steady on his feet, and was relieved to hear the muffled sounds of the valet arriving in the sitting room, exchanging a greeting with the guard on duty just loudly enough to make his presence known to all.

"I will see you later," she promised.

"Yes."

"For lunch." Something light. Neither had much appetite these days. (She didn't know Philippe worried about both of them, in hushed tones over late-night phone calls to his brother.) "I can stop by later in the morning for tea if -"

"Clarisse."

"Alright, I'm on my way."

She made it to the door again.

And paused again.

"Clarisse?"

"Yes?" she replied to the door. It would take more than she had to be able to turn around now.

"Thank _you_."

She nodded.

And left.

She came back mid-morning for tea. He didn't have to tell her he'd hoped she would.

* * *

_The next one is Joseph, I promise._


	3. Favorite Things

**Favorite Things**

"I thought I _just_ might find you here."

Clarisse startled, caught in what was very nearly a schlump, with her head down and her back bowed forward over her clasped hands.

(She did not notice the way Joseph's eyes traveled the graceful line of her neck, the supple curving of her spine; nor did she realize she was incapable of schlumping, looking instead like a ballerina in repose.)

She had felt alone - truly alone, not the illusion of solitude that Joseph tried to create for her, which she conceded was a sort of luxury in and of itself. He was generous with that faux alone-ness, often giving her more space than his job description technically allowed.

She straightened up and smoothed the layers of her filmy blue gown, only to have the late evening breeze ruffle them again. He was moving toward her slowly, giving her time to adjust to his presence; she blinked and his form took firmer shape in the dimness. The light from the palace was in remnants by the time it reached the gazebo, and there were festive lanterns in the gardens, but mostly it was moonlight and starlight and a warm glow that she would have sworn came from the man who was always dressed for the shadows.

Clarisse smiled, hoping it reached her eyes. From the wary expression he wore, she guessed it didn't. "Did you? Er, think you would find me here, that is?"

"No." He frowned. "It pains me to admit it, but I looked in quite a few other places for you first."

She laughed then, and was pleased it sounded real to her own ears. She had certainly felt it come from someplace secure and untarnished inside herself. The smiling was easier after that. Joseph took the spot next to her on the bench and gave her his own, almost shy smile.

"Bit chilly, isn't it?" He moved to take off his jacket, but she stopped him.

"I'm fine."

"You're not cold?"

"No. It's cool out here, but it's nice. It was rather warm in the drawing room."

He started to say something, then cleared his throat only to lapse into silence. He was waiting for her to speak. He wouldn't tread on her quietude any sooner than she wanted him to.

Joseph. Dear Joseph. He had treated her so carefully since Rupert had passed away. Surely, their years together had left no doubt in either of them as to the nature of their feelings for each other, but he hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, hadn't tried to insinuate himself in her grief. He had given her a different sort of space this past month, and she had been endlessly grateful for it. But she had missed him, too. Nothing was safer or more comforting than his easy presence, his conversation, his companionable silence.

_Dear_ Joseph. Profound joy and deep despair mixed together, and she forgot herself for a moment, almost reached out to him to touch his face.

Too soon for a gesture that meant too many things.

She swallowed and it hurt. Her voice was husky when she spoke.

"Did they send you to look for me then?"

He shook his head. "They'll want you soon, when they're ready to leave."

"Still in the drawing room?"

"Yes. After dinner drinks. Mostly coffee and tea."

"How tame. Dinner was hardly the indulgent affair Rupert's ball always was."

"Quieter, to be sure. The Princes did an admirable job."

Indeed they had - the Crown Prince and the Priest. They had insisted a small affair would not be in bad taste. Clarisse had relented, if for no other reason than it prolonged the time she had with them under one roof again. Her heart was lighter every time she came across them with their heads together, comparing notes and arguing amiably as they ironed out the details of her birthday dinner.

Losing Rupert seemed to make her love their boys even more, and sharpened her sense of dread at Pierre's impending departure. Everyone she loved most felt too far away in one sense or another, and she wanted nothing more than to gather them close to her.

"Yes, an admirable job. The occasion of the Queen's birthday has been observed."

Joseph gave her a pointed look. "As well it should be."

"Our enemies would have balked gleefully at anything more."

"King Rupert - may he rest in peace - would have been appalled at anything less."

Clarisse laughed quietly, a soft, breathy sound. "He would have been. Probably is. Pierre and Philippe might be haunted for this. No dancing, no drunken parliament members, no gifts."

"Actually." Joseph fidgeted for a moment before reaching into his pocket.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"You know you didn't have to. You never have to," she lied.

"Of course, I don't have to," he lied back.

He did have to. He couldn't help himself, and Clarisse was glad her protests always went unheeded. Joseph's gifts were the best gifts - never too big or boastful, never too small or thoughtless. Only ever just right.

But most of all, there was a smile he wore when he gave her something, proud and sure without being presumptuous. He enjoyed giving her things she didn't have, and she relished receiving things she hadn't known she'd been missing.

He opened his hand to reveal a small vial and held it out for her. She took it from him and eyed it curiously. In the pale light of the moon and the distant glow of lanterns, she saw it was clear, cut glass sealed with a simple silver cap.

"One of my sisters has a hobby," he explained. "She makes perfume."

"How wonderful!" she exclaimed softly. She removed the lid and was immediately met with the aroma, delicate but defined, of the concoction. "Oh, it's lovely. It's -" Clarisse paused to analyze the layers of scent, and as she recognized each one, it gently but firmly brought with it light memories and feelings of nostalgia.

"Bergamot?"

"Yes."

"Lavender."

"I believe so."

She placed her fingertip over the top of the vial and tilted it until she felt the liquid kiss her skin. Carefully, she replaced the cap before dabbing the perfume to the inside of her wrist where its last scent bloomed unmistakably. She smiled. "Roses," she stated with confidence.

"Roses," he confirmed.

She brought her wrist to her nose and inhaled slowly. "Some of my favorite things," she murmured.

"What a coincidence. They are mine as well."

His voice roughed the words enticingly. She looked at him and saw his jaw was tight, his eyes shimmering darkly.

"Are they?" she breathed, quickly turning back to study the vial as though it contained the antidote for all her emotional turmoil - grief at the loss of her best friend and partner in royalty; an ache to see her sons move on compounded by wanting to keep them where they were; desire to no longer keep the man she loved at arm's length.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear. "You are all my favorite things, Clarisse."

He pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek. It took the chill out of the air around her and in her, and soothed her troubled thoughts.

She asked, even though there was no way he could know all her question encompassed. "Everything will be alright, won't it?"

He considered the question, chose his words carefully. "Sometimes," he told her honestly. "Not always. But no matter what happens, there will always be a time when things are right again. And right or wrong, there will never be a time when I am not with you."

She ran her thumb along the glass, warmed first from resting near him in his pocket, now sheltered in her hand from exposure to the cool breeze. "If I should lose you, Joseph -"

"You will not," he vowed.

She very well could. Not even Joseph, who regarded his position as one entrusted with the most sacred of duties, could promise otherwise. But he sounded so sure of it, she decided to believe him, to be buoyed up by his determined faith. She looked over, and the words she needed to thank him caught in her throat.

His eyes shone with the certainty of what existed between them, and she saw she had been right before: it was no illusion that the space around him seemed brighter.

_Darkness is not dark for you._ The words sprang to her mind in her older son's voice, something comforting from the homily he had given - had insisted he give - at his father's funeral.

The words Clarisse and Joseph had never said, that they had guarded in the secret spaces in their hearts, were forming on Joseph's lips. Clarisse moved in to collect them directly on her own.

Not too much, but just enough. That's how Joseph's gifts always were.

And still too soon, but life was fleeting and Rupert would have wanted her birthday to be perfect.

For the moment, everything was right.

* * *

_The "darkness is not dark for you" quote popped into Clarisse's mind because it popped into mine when she and I realized Joseph was her own personal light source. It's from Psalm 139. And of course, there were a few borrowed lines from _The Sound of Music_._

_Next chapter has Joseph and Mia. (And Clarisse. It's her birthday, after all.) It's completely done, but if it's anything like these previous three chapters, I will end up re-writing it a ridiculous number of times._


End file.
